The Depths
by Taxie
Summary: Request from kink meme filled. Victoria-era BDSM, but all consensual. Spanking, crossdressing, cropping, figging. Enjoy.


England was looking at the silver coin between his fingers, twisting it over and over again so it would catch the light. The coin was not _his_, but as familiar as foreign currency could be - silver, notched edges, the convex bevel of a face on one side, an eagle with rounded wings on the other.

After a few moments, England allowed himself to come to terms with the fact that he was probably too drunk for this, but then America walked back into the room with a bottle of wine he'd brought from his own room. Likely rotgut, but, well. After a fifth of scotch, England wasn't sure if he could be bothered to make the requisite grumpy comment.

England looked up to see America's lip ticked up in a half smile as he held the bottle by the neck, showing England the label. "Merlot," the American said, and England was vaguely impressed that he remembered to call it 'mer-low' and not 'mer-lot.'

"I'm sure it's high quality," England replied, deceptively mild - he looked down at the coin in his hands, realizing that his thumb was rubbing over the imprint of George Washington's face.

"Hey, I didn't get the _cheapest_ bottle," America said with a bigger grin this time, going over to the hotel room desk. Of course, neither one of them had thought to buy a corkscrew and America was… ack.

England watched with a long-suffering sigh as the nation in front of him simply pushed the cork into the bottle with his finger. No class. Absolutely-

"No class," America interrupted his mental tirade - his voice was pitched _high_ like he had just been nailed in the testicles, which was the way that America always chose to imitate a British accent. "Absolutely no bloody class. It was like you were raised by barbarians."

England scowled, and America laughed, coming over with the plastic bathroom cups full of cheap wine.

"Cheers," America offered in his normal Yankee drawl, clinking the plastic glasses together before sitting down in the desk chair, across from where England was seated on the edge of the hotel bed. England rolled his eyes in response to the toast, and sipped from the plastic cup.

"This tastes like petrol," England informed the younger nation, getting another derisive snort from America. America leaned into the back of the desk chair and put his feet up on the desk, atop England's papers.

"And you used to suck down grog like it was France's knob," America retorted with another wicked half-grin. "At least _now_ we have the FDA and cheap wine won't blind you. Not as much could be said for grog. Or France's knob, for that matter."

England's eyebrows _narrowed_ and he snorted through his nose before taking another drink of the wine.

Another hotel room. Another world conference. Another last night in the hotel… and another short extension of leave before returning home. England looked out the window and saw the lights of Boston reflected in the Charles - strange, how the years blended together and it seemed like just yesterday this was a far-flung outpost… but that was definitely not the state of things now. He turned his head back to the plastic cup of wine, the coin in his hand, and the grinning younger nation across from him.

England tossed the coin through the air and the flipping coin seemed suspended - yeah, he had drank a bit too much for his own good - before America's large, impossibly strong hand darted out and snatched the coin from the air.

The fist was suspended between them for a moment. "So, are you going to go with the awesome symbol of American freedom, or the awesome patriot who helped throw off the chains of tyranny?"

England leveled another sour gaze over across at the younger nation. "You wouldn't know tyranny if it hit you in the face with a Roman shield," he told America primly. "Heads," he added, remembering rubbing his thumb over the impression on the coin.

America offered him another unabashed grin, before slapping the coin down on the back of his opposite wrist, and removing his hand with a dramatic flourish.

The eagle flashed in the light.

"Heh," was America's comment, reaching for his glass of petrol and downing the monstrosity in two inhumanly large gulps.

England's lips twisted. "Well," he said, taking another sip of his own alcoholic "beverage." He hummed. "I suppose you know-"

"Of course," America responded in a sentence that was more like a purr.

This was how it worked, of course. The "winner" was in control. The "loser" chose. It had been this way… for a while, now. Special relationship, indeed.

England hummed and raised his plastic cup to take another drink, but America's mouth was suddenly in the way and England had no choice but to dovetail his lips for the kiss.

Fucking George Washington always ruined everything.

Though, truth be told, at the end of the day, England had a hard time figuring out whether or not he was still angry about the ruination - losing tended to pay off in strange ways, and England was certainly no stranger to that.

# # #

America's Boston home was a townhome - and normally England would be more hesitant about doing this sort of thing in the equal to a rowhouse, but it was a Wednesday early afternoon and it was unlikely the neighbors were home as it were.

The outfit was… not exactly time appropriate, but, well, that wasn't the point. It was strange and arousing in and of itself just to be wearing a mockery of Victorian finery - the skirt was long and the tea-stained dark of age, brushing the insteps of the button-up black riding shoes. Even shifting slightly made England _shiver_ with sensation - the garter belt was pleasantly scratchy black lace against his waist, extending into the clips that held the thigh-high white stockings in place. The underwear was scandalously thin, and the unusual smoothness of feminine undergarments shot shivers of sensation up his body every time he shifted and the fabric rubbed against his cock and between his legs.

The corset was tight and entirely indecent for the time period, since he had forgone the accompanying overlayer - the bone of the corset rubbed his nipples to hardness already, and the anticipation was nearabouts killing him.

In short, it was perfect. It was perfect to be standing in the office in the corner, looking studiously at the slightly textured wall. England's pulse had been at a higher rate for the past ten minutes he had been standing here.

And standing. And _standing_.

Ten more minutes of restless shifting later - and where the hell _was_ that feckless layabout, he is half-hard already and just _standing and standing_-

The door opened. The hair on the back of England's exposed neck rose to attention, but England kept his gaze steadily in the corner.

The door closed. Footsteps against the carpet. Closer, closer-

Large warm hands closed over England's hips, causing the Briton to take a silent - but noticeable - intake of air. The hands then proceeded to roam freely - over his sides, up to his neck, down again to his ass and between his legs, palming the half-hardness there with a brazenness that England knew was coloring his cheeks.

When America pressed against his back, England's breath was shorter - he could feel the suit the other wore, and the lace jabot around America's neck was scratchy-cool against England's exposed back and neck. When America leaned forward to rumble in England's ear, England was _all _at attention.

"Supernova," America purred against the shell of his ear, the safeword. England exhaled through clenched teeth. "Green, yellow, red?"

England took a deep breath. "Green," England said quietly, ready for the water to close over his head and sweep him away.

And that got a _hum_ from America, who stepped back away from England's back, and there was a moment where England felt like he was _floating_ in his own fog, blind and ready to give himself away to the water and the wet and that sinking feeling that _was_ submission, that sinking and that inevitable tug toward the depths of _feeling_.

"Awesome," America said quietly. Not that England would ever admit it, but the boy _was_ good at an imperial purr when he tried. "You will approach the front of the desk and bend over - grab the opposite edge of the desk and spread your legs."

England took a breath. Another. After a moment, he turned around and saw - well, it's America, in a mostly-modern black suit, but there is a pressed handkerchief in the other's pocket and the jabot - again, a testament to the period, but not _exactly_ on.

The walk across the room was almost torture - it was so _wrong_ to feel the skirt around his hips, the scrape of the corset against his nipples, the pull and give of garters against his thighs and waist. So _wrong_ but _ah._

Without a word, the former British Empire walked to the desk and lay belly-down against the desk, spreading his legs and reaching for the lip of the table. Spreading his legs made the slick, scanty underwear pull tight against his cock and between the cheeks of his ass, and had he not a few thousand years of experience, he might have come _then_.

America followed after, sitting in the chair facing the desk and looking at England's splayed body, and if England wasn't flushed before he certainly was _now_. Flushed, his knuckles tightened around the lip of the desk and he inhaled - it smelled like pen ink.

America crossed his legs and smirked, the corners of his mouth pointing upward to those smug eyes. "I'm going to spank you," he informed England with entirely too much pleasure, causing England to _snort_.

"Are you?" England asked dryly. "You appear to be on the wrong side of the desk." It was hard, keeping up an appropriate level of snark as the other's words caused a spike of sensation to run through him as heavy and hot and piercing as a javelin.

America's smirk _widened_, an asymmetrical creation that made him smile more on the right than the left before he leaned forward. "Hard," America drawled. "With my hand, with a crop… and with a little surprise."

Good god. England tried to keep his face from changing expression, but he couldn't help his cock rising in the panties and this was _embarrassing_, frankly, but that was also the _point_. "Still on the wrong side of the desk," he groused. A bad comeback if there ever was one, but the movement of his cock against the panties caused so much _sensation_ it was as if his head wasn't screwed on entirely.

That got another beatific smile from America. "Easy to fix," he said, and when he rose from the chair, another javelin of sensation shot through England's body.

Deeper, _deeper_.

When America walked behind him and left his line of sight, England's fingers tightened on the edge of the desk - no nation liked to be bent over with an unseen other behind him, that was _never_ safe… but this was different. This was different. This was-

"Green?" asked America's drawl softly from behind.

This was different. "Green," England replied on a breath, closing his eyes and resting his cheek against the cool wood of the desk.

Hands, then, hands against his hips and sliding down to the hem of the tea-dark skirt, flipping it back, exposing the garters and the tight, thin lace panties and the thigh-high white socks and the buttoned riding boots. England _flushed_ at the exposure, feeling the lace of the skirt settle against his back as gooseflesh ran over his exposed thighs and ass, his muscles tightening instinctively before he forced them to relax somewhat.

America's hand was as wide and warm as the prairies under a late-spring sun, and when it rested against England's ass, England tightened again on instinct - but the warm hand only rubbed and cupped, making England grit his teeth. This was humiliating, he could stop it with a _word_-

He was sinking, sinking, but the light at the end of the tunnel was still green.

The first _smack_ was against the entirety of his ass - America had big hands. England let loose a quiet gasp, but quickly clamped down on further noises as the rhythm was established - _left, right, left right - _and the burn began to develop.

It was almost strangely silent at that point, frankly - the only noise was the obscene sound of flesh on flesh, the sound of punishment against England's unprotected ass. It was as if every stroke drove England to the deep, those waters where few cared to swim.

The spanking was not painful immediately; America's hand was firm, but certainly not as punishing as the superpower could be with his strength. However, after a few moments, England found himself moaning quietly against the wood with the growing burn and the arousal - his feet started to flex against the floor, and his body shifted, instinctively trying to move _away_ from the punishment, even as his hard cock implied an entirely different kind of want.

After a few more moments of near-silence, there was a low _hum_ from America. "I always wish you could see yourself during this," America commented lowly, the left right left right not stopping, "Flexing and shifting and _reddening_… can you imagine it?"

England very well could, but he was choosing _not_ to, thank you very much. After a few more strikes, England's torso shifted, causing the corset to pull against his nipples and there was another _moan_ in the air, deep and thick like winter fogs in Manchester streets. His cock dripped, caught in the fabric of the panties.

The water, the water, the _drowning_.

Eventually, the burn in his ass pushed England _down_, down down _down_ and then there was just the hand, the left right left right and the rhythm of pain that seemed to overwhelm the very beat of his heart. He slumped.

At the moment when England's body went lax, the rhythm stopped and that felt… disturbing somehow, as if the very pattern of the universe was disrupted and he was floating away from the earth's gravitational pull.

Deeper. Deeper.

Distantly, England heard the sound of drawers opening and closing - the crop, right. England floated on the cool island of that desk, feeling the burn in his behind like he had sat atop a stove.

…and then he heard America sitting back down in that chair across from him. England's eyes were damp, but while the spanking had been acutely painful, his eyes were not tear-blurred, so he managed to tip his head slightly to look at the other.

America was seated in the chair across from the desk, his ankle resting atop the knee of the other leg. What he was doing was a bit peculiar - he appeared to be whittling a small length of wood, easily slicing away the dark outer layer to reveal a lighter color beneath-

Wait.

"What… the hell?" England managed on a couple of shaky breaths, his tanned ass still seeming to control his mind - it was difficult to act indignant in a woman's skirt with a bare, red ass pointed to the world, after all.

America tipped his head up from his whittling with that rakish smile, still looking mostly unruffled in his suit, other than a slight pink tinge to his cheeks. He was slicing strips and strips away from the long finger of wood easily, _too_ easily, cutting notches in the end of it and-

_Wait_.

Before England could say anything, America stood with the entirely peeled and notched piece of wood and stuck his fingers in front of England's nose. The sharp smell of ginger permeated the air.

There was a moment of blankness in England's mind.

"Green?" America asked quietly.

"You're sticking ginger up my arse?" England managed to ask, trying for incredulous. His voice was slightly too high-pitched for it, though, and England winced when he realized it landed more in the realm of startled.

America hummed. "Gotta try new things," he said cheerfully. "Don't worry, see… I've notched the ends, it can't get lost in you."

England's cheek was still against the - now warmed - wood of the desk as he looked between the peeled ginger, America, and the wall.

After a prolonged silence, America's hand reached out and cupped under England's head, and that warm, wide hand coaxed England to a slightly raised position, and those wide lips pressed against his own, surprisingly gentle, and England was almost ashamed with how thick the saliva was in his mouth, but America's kiss was sure.

There were stories, stories that England remembered from the old days, stories of mermaids. Mermaids in the deep that would save forsaken sailors who were literally in over their heads, the mermaids whose kiss could give necessary oxygen to a drowning man.

The drowning was the _point_ in this particular exercise, of course, but the kiss was _a breath of air_. England let himself lean into that strength and that mouth, taking sustenance.

"Color?" America asked quietly, and when England's eyes fluttered open it was like looking into the promise of blue skies.

"Green," England breathed back after a moment, feeling his cock _twitch_ as the sailor sunk deeper.

America's asymmetrical smile was England's reward, and then his head was back against the table again, wondering about the intelligence of his agreement - but, then, again, there wasn't very much intelligent about this at all, was there?

England felt another spike of adrenaline go through him as America's fingers hooked into the lace band of his panties and lowered them down to his knees. He felt rather than heard America's _hum_ as the other's hand rested against his red ass.

England panted quietly as warm fingers parted his ass, and a slick, cool thing invaded him. It was an easier entrance than England thought it would be - America had whittled the ginger to be not much thicker than a single finger, so it went in painlessly.

And then… well, nothing. There was a slight stretch, and then… oh. Oh.

_Oh_.

The burn started, a hotness on his insides that made his body _clench_ in surprise… and then rapidly _unclench_ because tightening made it feel like there was a spear of fire in his arse and…

He was so busy flexing and relaxing and _shifting_ that England didn't hear the opening of the drawer, but he definitely felt the _thwack_ of a crop against his ass, to the point where he _yelped_-

…then his body _clenched_ and another spear of fire went through him, and the ginger burned even hotter.

"Oh you bastard," England managed, his fingers clutching white-knuckled against the edge of the desk.

A hum behind him was his only answer, along with another _thwack_ of the crop, this time against his other ass cheek. England made a low sound in his throat, and then his body _shivered_ when the thin looped leather ribbon at the end of the crop trailed down along the curve of his ass to tap lightly against the sensitive, soft skin of a sitspot.

"Right here," America murmured, and England's body _clenched_ automatically - which made him hiss as the ginger sent out a fiery burn in response. A low noise escaped from his throat just as the crop _thwacked_ down again on the spot that America had indicated.

"_Ah_!" England said, before he clamped down on the noises as well as he could, his fingers _gripping_ the edge of the table as the ginger burned and his body went hot and cold with anticipation and-

…extreme arousal, frankly. The ginger burned, but his cock was _hard_ against his stomach, and now that the panties had been lowered he could feel himself dripping onto the floor.

"The ginger is supposed to make orgasm more intense," America informed him, the ribbon of the crop tracing over the mark it had just made. "You will have to let me know if that's true or not."

England _would_ have responded, but only managed to gasp as the crop came down again, this time on his other cheek. Then… then the rhythm.

Tap tap tap _thwack_ tap tap tap _thwack_ tap tap tap _thwack_

The bugger certainly learned _quickly_ - England was almost 100% sure that America had inherited the anticipation technique from him. When the tables were turned, England _loved_ the sight of a rod or a crop against America's upturned ass, loved feeling the way the other would tense and jerk in anticipation of the _thwack_ and eventually was reduced to noises and jerking and _noises_-

…which was certainly not what was going on with _him_ right now, as his muscles tensed and loosed and the ginger sent that spear of _heat_ through his body and the crop danced along the underside of England's ass, moving steadily from the right all the way over to the left.

Certainly not. The floatingsinking feeling started to take over, the burn and dip, and when England came back from the depths, the cropping had stopped, but it felt as though there was a line of fire from hip to hip, tracing the lower curve of both ass cheeks.

…when he came back, he was still squirming, even though the crop was no longer hitting him. After a few quiet pants - when had he started moaning? He had no idea, but the silence echoed in his ears when he stopped. Two tears slid down his cheeks as he panted, his hot breath fogging the glossy surface of the desk from parted lips.

Deeper and deeper. His toes flexed uselessly against the ground for a moment, feeling the path of the crop like a red line rent _hot_ over the sting of the earlier spanking, the _zing_ of the ginger plug, and the tightness of electric pleasure burning along his spine and flowing in sure waves to the tips of his fingers.

In short, floating in the deep, dark depths, away from himself, the sailor's vision darkened as the surface became far, distant memory.

Hands, then, resting along his untouched hips, and England sighed distantly at the touch, his body relaxing into the desk, grateful for the grounding nature of the touch. The warm hands shifted down, and England felt himself _gasp_ when the ginger was gently removed from his body. The hands went back to England's hips, warm and steady.

The hands massaged for a moment, until England's body relaxed into the touches and into the desk. Floating, _floating_-

When a finger gently pressed against England's entrance, however, his body _seized_.

"Shh, shh," America's voice came from behind, from above, from everywhere - the hands went back to England's hips. "Red?"

A few moments of quiet panting. Too much. Too much. After a pause, England managed to nod against the desk, unable to form the word. This drew a hum from the younger nation, and when America moved his hand again, another gasp fell from England's mouth.

The hand did not return to England's ass, however. Instead, America's warm fingers gently danced along England's spread inner thighs. "Here?" America asked.

Another pause. England nodded again, and then managed to find some semblance of muscle control, enough to bring his legs together. _Ah_, the residual ginger inside gave another burn at the shift, but it was only enough to pull another quiet breath from the island nation.

Another hum from behind, and England heard the shifting of clothing behind him before America's hands planted on either side of England's body, leaning forward to press against him.

Oh, the _heat_. America's body could be much warmer than most, and certainly ran hotter than England's even at rest. Now, however, pressed against England from chest to thighs, the full heat of arousal and the tropics against wet fogs. The scratchiness of the jabot against England's neck, and when America dropped a wet kiss against England's shoulder, it was all humidity and human arousal.

America's cock, large and hard, gently pressed between England's thighs, and after a moment of blissful floating, England _grunted_. "Lube," he managed - while there was certainly enough sweat built up so that America likely wouldn't have much problem moving, England did _not_ fancy walking the next week with cock-burn between his legs. There was enough presence of mind for _that_.

That pulled a sheepish chuckle from America, who shifted back slightly. "Sorry," he murmured. "Too excited - forgot." When America's cock returned to nestle between England's thighs, there was the cool thickness of lube, soon to become warm and thin with friction. England _sighed_.i, but almost choked on his own exhale when a warm hand reached around to palm his cock.

That was the curious part about the depths - England had been as hard as a diamond ever since the hand-spanking, but it was easy to forget such things when they became a _constant_ factor. The touch sent another arrow of pure _pleasure_ through him, however, and his throat released a low moan like a horn sounding over the lengths of flat waters.

When America shifted and started to thrust, England's eyes rolled back in his head as the depths gained momentum and current - there it was, the thrusting and the rocking against the desk, the warm grip of America's hand around his cock not moving _not moving_ the rub of his nipples against the inside of the corset, America's thickness between his legs dripping with lube and precome, the phantom burn of ginger, the stinging continuance of the punishment, the tight coil of pleasure in a body about to burst-

A cry, then - his own? The last gasp of a sailor drowning in the willing depths? - and release came in a _rush_ of currents and waterfalls and the movement of two bodies and _burn_ and when England's hands started to scrabble against the wood in an attempt to find purchase in _anything_ they slipped with sweat and all he could do was _arch_.

Floating. Floating. Floating.

Somewhere in that place, America must have finished, too, because trails of wetness were slowly rolling down England's inner thighs and sinking into his stockings. It was that movement that first brought the sailor up to take a breath at the surface - England grunted.

Weightlessness of a sort when America pulled away, but England couldn't be arsed to move from the desk even if he _wanted_ to move, which he didn't, not particularly. He lay splayed like a loose, shameless thing, his cheek against the sweat-slick surface of the wood.

Vague noises told him that America was moving around, and then there was a damp wipe between his legs. _Normally_ England would take exception to being wiped down like a child, but in the floating place he just sighed at the removal of sticky residue.

When the wipe went away, cool fingers gently touched at England's lower thighs - cold cream. England gasped at the sudden temperature change, but his lower body went lax so that it could be applied. A moment's shiver, and then a _sigh_ as pain lessened.

"I've got ibuprofen in the bedroom," America said, sounding normal enough to draw another grunt from England. "I'll carry you there."

"The hell you will," England's mouth responded for him, though the pitch of the sentence just sounded dazed.

"You can play at Rule Britannia later," America's drawl returned. A moment later a blanket settled over England's unprotected backside. Distantly, England realized that this was actually a rather considerate move - the lace skirt would likely prove far too scratchy for just-punished skin. However, he just made another low growling noise in his throat at the quip.

Strong hands hooked under England's armpits, pulling him away from the solid wood surface that had been the only real thing since sinking. England's head flopped back and he was horrified in an out-of-body way when the noise that escaped him sounded panicked at the sudden loss of grounded surface.

"To bed," America said, and one arm supported his back while the other quickly scooped under England's weak knees to pull him up, princess-style.

"Supernova," England muttered against a wide, warm chest that smelled like an apple harvest. This drew a laugh from America, which reverberated into England's body. Movement, then - America was walking out of the room and down the hall.

"Safewording doesn't work out of scene, old man," America said cheerfully, handling England's body as if he were as light as air or fog. England grunted again and leaned into the scent of sweet apples ripening in the sun.

He lost track of place for a moment, but then found himself on his side on a soft surface - America's bed, and with England's nose pressed into the sheets, it smelled like apples and barley and soap. England's mouth watered as America's hands removed the blanket, loosened the ties at the back of the corset, unbuttoned the skirt and England's boots, and removed the garters. Naked, England sighed with pleasure, hearing the other disrobe behind him.

The bed dipped as the other nation joined him, and the blanket returned, draped over the pair of them. America shifted so that they were pressed together chest to chest, which meant that England's forehead rested against the other's warm shoulder.

"Medicine?" America asked, a hand resting on England's side.

England grunted and shook his head. "If it means moving, absolutely not," he said, loose in the pleasures of afterglow and the slow float back to the surface.

America hummed and shifted into a more permanent position, and England's hand reached out to fist into that head of golden hair.

Comfortable silence, then, and the sailor slept in the sun.


End file.
